


If I Were a Carpenter

by Jaeger Gipsy Danger (Carleen)



Category: The Last Ship (TV)
Genre: M/M, The Last Ship - Freeform, The Last Ship Romance, The Last Ship Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-25 07:31:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7523947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carleen/pseuds/Jaeger%20Gipsy%20Danger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This has been coming for a while now and those last two episodes. I'm sorry, but that's a SLASH opportunity. Jane sure as hell never looked at Captain Reynolds that way. So here you go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Were a Carpenter

 

* * *

"Save my love through loneliness

Save my love for sorrow

I'm given you my oneliness

Come give your tomorrow"

* * *

Heat and humidity simmered on his skin and dripped down his neck and into his ears. It burned between his legs and toes as unwashed skin began to rot. The vermin in his filthy clothes feast on what's left of him. He doesn't need the doc to explain the smell that crept into his nose and closed his throat. It's just the leftovers of his body as it melted down. Soon he'll dissolve into this soup. Soon, he'll be gone forever.

Hours and days. Dark and light. Heat and cold. Each time they took him he lost more of himself. Panic rose as he felt his will to survive slip away. It's unacceptable. Shame filled him as he floundered in this stinking world that pulled at his eyes, stole his breath and.

It's almost like the water board training at SERE school. _SERE_. The letters tugged at his memory, so he pushed his exhausted body toward it. He knew what that was… He remembered! _Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape_. But even that memory taunted him while it slipped away and his surroundings faded until nothing but the heat touched him now.

They yanked him from the ground and forced him to his feet. He can't leave his people. Anxiety gripped his throat squeezing bile into his mouth. He has responsibilities. They look to him for leadership. _Failure to execute duties as assigned. Mission failure. All hands lost._ He knew that if he stopped fighting, they would win. So he struggled against what he's having trouble remembering. Hands forced him back down. He can no longer fight them. The persistent heat welcomed him back into its embrace, while the humidity stole a few more ounces.

Voices swirled around him, and he struggled to hear. If he could understand the words, he might recognize them. The voices are as familiar to him, as…as, what? Are they dead? No, not all of them. But one, by one, day by day, they slipped away. Young and brave their bodies churned into a stew of gore. He saw into their open eyes felt their siren call, heard it through the ringing in his ears. Is _he_ dead? Not quite, but he will follow them soon. Easier to let go. The scent of rotten food, urine and feces will leave him if he does. He'll go back to where he belonged.

The bridge of a ship. So clean, shining and purposeful. She flys over water, so blue...as blue as… The memory slipped from his grasp. The water parted as if obeying their command. The bridge of a ship and blue eyes filled with a grief that knows no end. It's only when they are alone together that… No, that can't be right. If he wept for it, will it come back?

Silver glinting in the early sun as they changed course into the glow of dawn. Nathan? Is that his name? The one with the silver hair? The one with hands that fascinated him with their long fingers...almost delicate. Yet, able to kill or soothe a grieving shipmate.

Shipmates. Never leave one behind. Take care of your shipmates. Always. But they pulled at him, sucking him dry with their needs and their grief until soon there will be nothing left. Yet, there he stands, stalwart and unbreakable. The one with the silver hair. He shimmers against his eyelids. So close.

Too weak to fight it, something hot is poured down his throat. It burned the open sores that coat his tongue and tasted of animal dung. The urge to release it from his body is irresistible. Then he understood, that if he kept it down, for a little while, his mind calmed and pieces of memory floated back into his awareness. Like a child gathering sweets, he raced toward them, grabbing at what he can reach. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how fast he ran he cannot find them all. So many of them are lost. Gathering them with his hands, he sees how wasted his fingers appear. But he won't let that stop him. He ran weeping like a child along an empty beach searching for the lost and collecting memories.

A beach. Warm scented air. A smile over healthy white teeth with lips waiting to be touched…tasted. But his wife and son are dead. The man with the silver hair told him so. So it must be true. And so he's brought him to this beach for a private moment away from the crew. A glass bottle is pressed into his hands. He accepted it gratefully, then upended the contents, allowing it to fill the cold spaces and wash away the black clot that's lodged in his throat.

A hand on his lower back. The man with the silver hair murmured. "Hey, take it easy."

The need to lean back against that hand or curl into the broad shoulders overwhelmed him. Just for a moment? Please? I cannot bear this grief. The world is gone, butchered, and torn apart. Now there are those who wish to continue what the virus started.

They are alone here on this beach with the moon casting the silver hair into shadow and light. There's a disobedient lock of his hair hanging over his brow that needs fixing. Instead of giving into the action, he stuffed his free hand into his pocket. The hand doesn't leave his lower back, while the pressure of the touch builds.

The alcohol betrayed him by forcing hot tears down his cheeks. Does the man with the silver hair weep too? No one asked him. No one offered him a shoulder. Those fingers clutched at the muscle and bone under the thin shirt he wore. The empty bottle dropped silently and unheeded into the sand. He cannot look into those blue eyes. But he can slide an arm around a trim waist and lean against the broad shoulders that carry so much.

It is a step. It's the first step.

The memory glowed in his hands and filled him with feelings that for most of his life were alien and unwelcome.

The other hand touched his chin and stroked a thumb over his mouth. Fingernails scratched lightly across the stubble on his cheeks. He shivered when the hand on his back became the arm around his shoulders. Still, he can only watch the waves tumble over the sand.

The man with the silver hair turned his face toward him. It's his undoing because this is what he fought against for so long. The touch of the hands, the eyes, and the silver hair are not his dream, and they never will be. It's an empty dream. That's nothing new to him. There are others more worthy. Others who need this man more.

The mouth he longed for began to move. "I'm sorry about…"

No! Don't say it. Please don't say their names. Stop. But the man is insistent, and more words came slashing at him like a knife, until he began to bleed. _Shut up. Stop. Please, stop._ But the man will not stop, and he knew why. It's his job to offer succor to his crew. So he will stubbornly follow through. He's taller than the man with the silver hair, and when he felt himself falling into the blue ocean of his eyes, his mouth covered the other's lips to silence him. The contact sent a message through both of them. Ignore it. Walk away. Forget what happened. What _is_ happening.

He should listen to the warning, but the man with the silver hair turned so that his body is flush with his. Now both hands rest on his lower back. His own wasted hands come to rest on the handsome face. The blue eyes stare up at him full of questions. He doesn't know the answers. He doesn't understand the strength he gained from the taste of this man him. It buoyed him and banished the pall of grief. He doesn't understand that his affection also heals. The man with the silver hair crushed him in an embrace from which he cannot escape. It is much too late for escape. The hands he dreamt about returned to his lower back and spread below his waist, over the pockets of his shorts. The kiss didn't break when the man with the silver hair pushed their hips together. The effect of the touch felt like a bolt of electricity burning through his body to connect them. He bites down on the man's lower lip to keep from crying out.

Then everything happened at once, as clothes drifted to the sand. The surf roared and tossed against the shoreline. He pushed the barrier of his boxers away, and they slip down smooth legs. The hands pushed down his board shorts and drew back in surprise when they touched bare skin and not the expected undergarment. He felt himself smile against the surprised look. He never wore underwear, not even in uniform. Until now, no one knew. Until now.

There is no turning back. Their hips lock together, pushing, seeking the sweet friction that each denied themselves in favor of duty. The proof of their desire liquefied between them, melting in the heat of their bodies and sealed them together. He kissed the upturned smile and dipped his tongue inside to taste. He's surprised at how sweet…hot and sweet, like a forbidden thing that must be consumed quickly. The man with the silver hair slides his mouth over his chin and down his neck provoking sensations he'd forgotten. Each touch of lips to his skin sent tremors up his need to take himself in hand is forgotten in favor of spreading his hands over the rounded muscles which strain against him.

They pulled back. Their movements almost pushed them to the brink. But the night is young, and the moon hides them in the shadows of her embrace. The silver head pushed against his shoulder, breath quick and hot on the bend of his neck. The silver hair yielded and he carded his fingers into the cool metallic strands.

There will be time later to explore the body that arched toward him. He closed his fist in the man's hair and pulled him down to the sand, into the shallow nest of their discarded clothes. They sprawled together, for a moment uncertain of the next move or the next second. Panting, they rose to their knees. Their kisses turned hungry, angry and needy. He tasted blood on his lip and nearly came then. He's caught in the friction and the sticky need of the man with silver hair. In a moment more…

No, he stopped them. Not yet. Ignoring the confusion reflected in the stormy blue eyes, he pushed him down, first on his side then on his back. Intent on his prey, he is distracted by the straining muscles writhing and twisting under the smooth skin. He narrowly missed being caught by the hands he's watched so often. Instead, he captured the fisted hands and knelt between the long legs. Hips rose to meet his kiss.

His first taste is of the sea. The warm, salty ocean where they live their lives. After a life of self-imposed loneliness, this is the most intimate thing he's ever done with another person. The wariness faded quickly as the blue eyes watched and studied his movements, then rounded when he kissed the tip. Smooth and hot against his lips he opened his mouth to receive this gift. They watched each other until he opened his mouth and relaxed his throat to the throbbing vessel. The face contorted, hands fisted into the sand, his head fell back.

It filled his mouth and stroked his tongue with the taste of something he never imagined could be his. He will do this for the man he's watched turn away one woman after another. Beautiful women who do not bother to hide their desire. A hand clasped the back of his head and pulled him down. They find a rhythm as old as the sea. The man with the silver hair drove himself upward. Time forgot them as they strained and rocked together. The wind and sand eddied around their body's as their panting breath floated into the humid air.

The man beneath him began to change. Stomach muscles contracted, and breath stopped in a silent gasp. His own hand stroked the final pattern which unlocked the forbidden need, and he emptied himself into the sand. When he can breathe again, he returned his attention to the man and the need throbbing against his belly. He slipped his hand's under to cup the cheeks coiled and ready. So many textures and so many shapes. The light curling hair tickled his nose. A heartbeat thrummed along the underside. The sack resting on his knees tightened and lifted. Muscles quivered, the hand tangled in his short hair fell away. He watched the man with the silver hair open his mouth in a silent scream.

The taste of him flooded across his tongue while he swallowed the gift of salty sweet desire. It is a moment of pure surrender for both of them. Sated for the moment they fell together, in a tangle of arms and legs, to the sand. Hands smoothed taut muscles as each man gentled the other. They haven't spoken since the first warning about the beer. There are no words yet for what just happened. Perhaps tomorrow, or the next day but not now. He closed his eyes and drifted against the man with the silver hair.

The silent night shattered when someone called his name.

_Mike?_

He cannot help but smile with pleasure at the sound of his name ripped from the mouth he kissed. It is an experience he will seek again. With his head resting on the flat stomach he listened to the sound of his name. Finally, he raised his head. The man with the silver hair no longer appeared dazed with spent passion. This man with shadows under his eyes like bruises and that lock of hair that fell across a furrowed brow is different.

"Mike?"

But it's so peaceful here, and he wants to stay where the scent is sweet and familiar. Where he's comfortable and warm. A hand smoothed his cheek, laced fingers with his and pulled him from the dream.

"Mike? Can you hear me?"

The rippled plains of the stomach under his cheek became the starchy fabric of a pillow. He's laying in a bunk under clean sheets and a blanket. Light—not moonlight—shined into his eyes. When he squinted the light away, the room darkened instantly. In the lowered light he could focus on the face smiling down at him and watched relief play out across the handsome features. It's the man with the silver hair. He reached up to touch the firm jaw.

"Took you long enough to find us," he said. "One, maybe two more bags of blood and I'd be no good to you in a number of ways."

The careworn face frowned at him, "It's not a joke, Mike."

"Lost that last ten pounds. Hey, remember that beach?"

"Seen a lot of beaches, XO." Taking his first real breath since they got off the island. His face relaxing at playful words and the usual banter.

"Gitmo. That's it. Remember, Tom? We ditched Tex and the crew. We found that beach?"

Relief at rescuing Mike and his team tugged at his stamina. As if the only thing he had strength left for was to hold Mike's hand, stroke his cheek and listen to him breathe.

The lopsided grin faded. With a strangled cry the XO rose up from the bed, rattling the I.V. bottle and setting off alarms. Chandler stopped his movement by closing Mike in his arms. With his fingers dug in, over clenched teeth and tears, he will not allow himself to shed he spoke against Tom's shoulder. "The crew? They stayed strong. All the way. So brave and so strong. Shouldn'a went to that nightclub. My goddamn fault."

"Mike, you don't even remember how we got out off the island? Never mind, I'll tell you all about it another day. They were gunning for us. Don't go all martyr on me now. It really doesn't suit you." Chandler raised his head to gaze into the man's face he'd been almost certain he'd never see again. "The ship is squared away, and we're safe. Your orders are to get some rest, and when you're ready, the ship is yours."

Captain Chandler eased his XO down on the narrow bed. He knew that if he left Mike Slattery alone, instead of getting the rest he so badly needed he'd be up prowling the ship. So he settled himself into the small chair by the bed.

"Now, why don't you remind me about that night at Gitmo."

* * *

 

 

If I were a carpenter

And you were a lady

Would you marry me anyway?

Would you have my baby?

#

If a tinker were my trade

Would you still find me

Carryin' the pots I made

Followin' behind me?

#

Save my love through loneliness

Save my love for sorrow

I'm given you my oneliness

Come give your tomorrow

#

If I were a miller

At a mill wheel grinding

Would you miss your color box

And your soft shoe shining?

#

If I worked my hands in wood

Would you still love me?

Answer me babe, yes I would

I'll put you above me

#

If I were a carpenter

And you were a lady

Would you marry me anyway?

Would you have my baby?

Would you marry anyway?

Would you have my baby?"

#

_If I Were A Carpenter_

Music Bobby Darin, et al - Lyrics Tim Hardin


End file.
